Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ororon hikes up the hill to his residence.

A peaceful day. A tired body. An ancient name. Work still to be done, and a will that at least has the strength to do it.

Ororon lets his gaze travel over his small crop field.

Where he, this morning, left behind well-cultivated carrots and radishes (and strawberries — a new crop he was hoping to coax into thriving here)... he now sees upturned dirt, scattered roots, a tear in his fence, and half his plants demolished.

He sets a fire inside his cabin, and sets to making a stew of what he already had stashed in his pantry. He'd left his door locked and the inside of his house, at least, was left well enough alone. It may be a lonely place here, but he's relieved that nobody has broken in.

(Even if they had, though, it would be what, a minor inconvenience? It wouldn't matter that badly. He probably wouldn't feel too upset. Why should he?)

Ororon crouches down over the stew. It's looking skimpy, between just a potato and what was salvageable of his other vegetables, and some dried meat from Kinich. He's in no danger of starving, considering that he's surrounded by food sources where he lives, but he'd wanted to have something hearty and well-cooked today.

Maybe he should hurry up and do some foraging. He doesn't want to have something this meagre when Granny Citlali gets here — and judging by the position of the sun in the sky, she'll probably be around pretty soon.

A rapping at his door. Ororon jolts in place.

"Ororon, sweetie? Are you in there? Is everything alright?"

...Oh. She's already here.

Ororon hastily shakes some seasonings into the stew pot (pathetic, but all he can do at this point) and gets up. He may as well let her see what's happened here.

When he opens the door, Granny is immediately touching his arms lightly, with a concerned gaze upwards at him (she's getting on her tiptoes just to do it). "Sweetie, what's happened? Have you been attacked? Your home—"

"It's only the plants, Granny."

"Whoever did this deserves vengeance! I will hunt down whoever has this vendetta against you and—"

Ororon doesn't like the idea of someone facing Citlali's wrath, just because they didn't personally like him.

Ororon shakes his head hastily. Nobody deserves to get hurt for his sake. "Please, Granny. Did you see the damage to the fence? I bet it was just some hungry Saurian."

"Some hungry— well! That's still something Kinich should know about! If it's in trouble, he can go take care of things! And if it's gone bad... well, you know!"

"Did someone mention my name?" Kinich says, walking in on Ororon and Granny. His gaze turns to where Ororon is standing awkwardly. "Ororon. I'm inspecting the damage. It looks like a human's traipsed through here and destroyed your garden. This is unacceptable."

Ororon raises his hands defensively, at the same time that his thoughts turn back to the stew. He was going to stretch it so that Granny's portion would be acceptable, but now with Kinich here, it'll be obvious that he couldn't make a good stew for his guests. It won't go three ways. (Or four, depending on what Ajaw demands as sacrifice.)

"It's not bad," Ororon says. "I'll rebuild. It's just something that happened."

"Are you serious?" Ajaw says, popping out from behind Kinich. "Your yard looks like shit! Or do you just LIVE like this?!?"

"Ororon does not, in fact, live like this," Kinich says. "It looks more like destruction than theft. They even damaged your fence just so it'd look more like some kind of animal or Saurian did it. I'm inclined to think somebody has it out for you."

"It's okay," Ororon says. "Please. I don't want anybody to be upset over this."

"What about you?" Citlali asks. "Maybe you should be upset. I'm thinking of going to report this. This cannot stand to go unpunished!"

"Granny..."

"That's it, I've made up my mind. Nobody messes with my darling grandson and gets away with it. Ororon, sweetie, please stay safe. I'm telling Mavuika about this and bringing you some supplies. And if our Archon can't get to the bottom of it quickly enough, I'm dirtying my own hands and teaching somebody a lesson."

"Granny!"

Before Ororon can make even a feeble attempt at hospitality with his depressing soup and pathetic tea (a few leaves boiled in water), Granny is gone.

He stares out the door after her.

After a few minutes, Kinich speaks up. "Ororon. Buddy. I wouldn't take this so lightly. Whatever happened is bad news."

"...Kinich?"

The "buddy" thing is relatively new. Kinich isn't a nicknamer. And, it's only Ororon — somebody whom Kinich will exchange a hollow look with, while a hand is placed on Ororon's shoulder, with Kinich leaning towards him a bit (Kinich isn't one to lean on nigh anyone, but Ororon is admittedly a head taller than him, so maybe it just makes sense). Why does Ororon get the nickname "buddy"? Is it because he's so sad and lonely? Is it because Kinich treats him like the only person he shares some dark, disturbed thing in common with?

(It's not like the overlap is straightforward. Kinich just doesn't "click" with normal people, even if he's well-respected, and there's something in Ororon that would make him the one to understand that. That's probably the best way to describe whatever is going on between the two of them.)

"It's only vegetables," Ororon says.

"It's about more than vegetables. You're one of the heroes of Natlan," Kinich says. "You helped save this country, and somebody has committed a clear act of aggression against you. If someone still has a vendetta against you, we need to find out why."

"...Why would somebody..."

"Maybe it's someone who's never looked beyond what you came from," Kinich says tensely. "Someone who watched you become a hero, and still somehow thinks that isn't enough of a sacrifice. Maybe someone thinks you don't deserve to have your ancient name, and that it should have gone to them. Or maybe..."

"Maybe?"

"...Maybe it's not about you. Maybe somebody thinks our nation shouldn't have been saved. This could be an act of hostility against Natlan itself."

Ororon goes quiet.

"What the fuck?" Ajaw says. "Why would anybody do something braindead like that?"

Kinich turns to glare at Ajaw, but Ororon can't tell if it's over the swearing or just Ajaw's general attitude. "Perhaps there is still some vengeful follower of the Abyss."

"Damn! What, you mean there's some loser who just won't give up?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I have not had anything of the sort happen to me, but perhaps you are not the only one. I will ask Mualani, Iansan, Xilonen, and Chasca if they have faced any odd acts of aggression as of late. Ororon, please do not take this lightly. You are strong, but you deserve to be safe in your own home of all places. Do not let anybody impress upon you that you do not deserve this peace."

Ororon frowns, staring emotionlessly at Kinich. "Comrade..."

Kinich steps close to Ororon and has his fist meet his shoulder — slowly, and not painfully, but with enough "oomph" that Ororon is forced to sway. Kinich may have that emotionless, dead look in his eyes worse than Ororon's, but Ororon keeps observing this from him: small acts of affection, like Kinich would do for Kachina (except Kachina much smaller than Kinich and Ororon, and has enough of a soul that she responds well to the touch).

"Ororon," Kinich says. "You have carved out a small patch of peace for yourself, even after the kind of life you've had. Because of what you've done for Natlan, I think you deserve at least this much. Let nobody take it away from you."

"Kinich, please—"

"And I owe you my skin. You had my back at a terrible moment. Even Ajaw didn't want me to die then — and I would have, if not for you."

"Please, this is all too much..."

"It isn't. Someone has something against you. I was having trouble repaying what you've done for me. But now I finally have a way to help you." Kinich turns away and heads for the door, but he pauses with his hands bracing the doorframe. "Perhaps you shouldn't even stay here. Someone might want to hurt you."

Kinich feels a watery sensation in his eyes. A feeling of being distraught.

"I can't just leave my home right now. The aphids— the animals I feed— the— the plants, if I want to salvage anything—"

"He's sort of right," Ajaw says. "This place is a shithole. Even inside here. Damn, loser, you live like this? What if you ever wanted a family or something? This place sucks!"

"That's enough, Ajaw." Kinich glares at Ajaw. Ororon is aware of how terrifying that dead-eyed look becomes when it turns angry.

A brief blip of protest, and Ajaw is gone. Sealed away.

Ororon's lips tighten. He knows what that means. Ajaw will get extra obnoxious later. An even bigger headache for Kinich.

Kinich claps his hand onto Ororon's shoulder one last time. "I mean everything I say. I still owe you. You don't even like coffee, so I haven't had a good way of repaying you. Please, just let 'Granny' and myself take care of this."

"Kinich..."

Ororon knows Kinich is damaged. So, so damaged. Ororon knows the whispers of a recently-orphaned kid whose bruises from a violent father hadn't even faded from his body yet. A hunter boy who raised himself but somehow still came out with a sense of what's right and wrong, as Ororon knows from the times he's partnered with Kinich and watched him make difficult calls. Someone who views all things as transactional, as exchanges. A righteous person, with a brutally cold worldview. That is Kinich.

And Kinich is bothered by Ororon being hurt.

"You can take care of yourself," Kinich says, as though to verify. "There are no problems with your Vision, weapon, or stock of arrows."

"Everything's fine. Please."

"Take care then," Kinich says. "I'll come back soon. We'll figure out where to go from there."

The evening is quiet.

Ororon equips himself well, with bags and rope and bait, and even gloves and knives if he takes down a really good catch, something he'd want to skin sooner rather than later. His crops will take time to heal, but if he can have a few big cuts of meat hanging from his ceiling that he can easily harvest from, he'll be in a much better place.

And nighttime is, of course, when his senses are sharpest — when his eyes fully focus and his ears perk all the way up.

He slowly descends the mountainside, alert for prey.

But he picks up signs of something else instead.

Ororon hurries to the whimper of distress.

It's an old man, collapsed in shrubs at one side of the mountain path.

"I need someone," he says hoarsely, desperately, at the sound of Ororon's footsteps. "I need some help!"

"What's wrong? You don't look badly hurt. But can you walk? Is your balance bad?"

"Young man," the old man wheezes, "I need my walking stick. I stumbled, and it fell from my grasp. I'll be able to stand once I have it, but I might need help getting home."

"If you need a walking stick, this terrain is too dangerous for you," Ororon says sternly. "You need to stick to paths better trodden."

"My research does not permit it, but, perhaps I am getting too old. I might need some research assistance in the future."

Ororon asks, "Research? Where are you from?" The man is clearly not from any of the tribes.

"Sumeru. It gets lonely, but I meet a few of my countrymen now and again, in this foreign land. Those who understand the importance of research." The man wheezes. His condition sounds rough. "Please. I need help getting back to my dwelling."

"I'll take you there. Just guide me. If you need a local's help on any of your research, I may be able to help you."

"Really..."

"Sure. It isn't any trouble at all." Ororon, still strong and healthy (liking to think he's perfectly unrattled by what he came home to earlier), gets down to support the old man, with an arm under his shoulders.

"Hang on," the man says. "Would you please grab my walking stick for me? It's ancestral; I'd hate to lose it."

"Sure," Ororon says.

Ororon kneels down in the bushes, to search for the old man's stick.

He finds it. A staff made from wood not of this land, carved with a script Ororon cannot read.

He kneels over the old man, and places it into his grasp.

And as he does so, the man's fingers move nimbly. They slip under the sleeve of Ororon's jacket, forcing it upwards. And in the same motion, a tiny needle, so unintrusive that Ororon does not even feel pain, enters the vein of his wrist.

"What—" Ororon stammers, as fluid flows from the needle.

The old man is smiling at him kindly. Gently.

"I am very happy that you came to me," the old man says. "You will be of spectacular assistance to my research."

Chapter Text

Ororon wakes up.

Something is wrong immediately. He cannot hear any of the noises of the outdoors. He feels trapped and cut off. Wherever he goes in Natlan, he can normally hear the wind. He is hardly ever in a totally enclosed, insulated space.

The rest of his senses come into focus.

...Hm. This situation seems bad.

Ororon is aware of his extremities — ankles, wrists, individual fingers — being bound in place by metal. The lighting is harsh and artificial. He has been separated from almost all of his belongings: he's heavily stripped down, but for whatever reason he still has his Vision on him, now strung on a chain around his neck instead of somewhere on his clothing.

And...

And...

...Oh.

Ororon figures out why he awakened with that panicked, deeply-unnerved feeling inside him. That feeling of something being totally off. It's because his wings, normally tucked away from use, have been forcibly extended to their full length, and clipped in place. He cannot so much as twitch them.

Ororon has never been in this position before. He is used to being able to keep his wings to himself. They are sensitive to nearly any physical touch, and Ororon has only ever let Granny handle them, just so she could inspect them for damage after a rough scrape Ororon had been in. The experience had been mildly nerve-wracking, but Ororon was able to trust that Granny, even if she threatened him, would never want to hurt his wings — there was an implicit understanding between them that that'd be a step too far, a cruelty that could not be excused. Because only he had wings like his. The weakness that came with them was unique to him. Granny would never want to exploit something that vulnerable about him.

A panic response starts in his chest. A rapid breathing. Sweat. Tears in his eyes. His gaze tears across the cramped, isolated room, searching for some kind of answer.

He finds no clarity. He is in a cavern of some sort, with walls a reddish hue — but the lighting is artificial, from flat white lights that flicker sporadically. What Ororon suspects to be the singular exit is plastered over by steel paneling, with a single door that has no handle, no knob, no way in or out except for what Ororon guesses to be some kind of technological interface. (He's hardly seen any such thing.)

Ororon wonders if he's been abandoned. Left alone here to wake up, process the way his body has been spread out and pinned in place like he is an insect, and then rot away here.

At the thought, tears spring to his eyes. Someone has to let him go... he can't properly be forgotten about, because there will be people who notice he's gone. Granny and Kinich will realize before anyone else... and they'll worry, even if Ororon isn't worth their effort. And, Ororon had plants! He had things to fix back home! He was taking care of creatures! He needs to get back right away, because they might suffer without him!

His breath catches in his throat. One of the forest squirrels near him was pregnant, right? She looked a little clumsy, last he saw. What if she has a problem with delivery? What if she needs Ororon to bring food to him? And if he's not around...

A light changes on the door's terminal. Ororon flinches and becomes alert. A man walks in. He carries a doctor's bag of some kind (Ororon guesses only because he recognizes the shape).

"Sir," Ororon gasps, as though begging for an explanation (but too polite to demand a thing).

"Hello," the stranger says. "I hope you are doing well today."

The man is tall enough to look down on the crucified Ororon. He is dressed in foreign clothes: a tightly-tailored, violet-colored shirt; pants that also look tight. The outfit is simple, but reveals that he is far more muscled than Ororon himself (even though Ororon is sculpted from chopping lumber and tilling dirt). There's something oddly brutal about his sudden appearance — that, and the fact his face is hidden by a mask.

"Sir— please— there has to be some kind of mix-up. I'm— the last thing I was doing, I was helping an old man with his walking stick, and now I'm—"

"Yes," the stranger says. "That was me."

He says it like it answers every possible question Ororon could have.

Ororon replies as though it is the case. "Oh."

The man steps closer. Ororon pre-emptively sucks in his stomach, as though the man will touch him. But the man does not touch any of his vitals — instead, his hand cups around Ororon's face, tilting his head to either side to inspect.

"That's right," Ororon gasps. "I'm... not supposed to be here."

"You were supposed to die," the Doctor says, with notes of pity in his voice. "And instead you ran away."

"I know my actions were selfish..." Ororon's tone drops, from the old guilt and shame. "...but... I have done my best to make up for it. I did everything I could to help my country fight the Abyss. ...It may be better that had happened, than my life be sacrificed early on."

"Yes," the Doctor says. "A hero of prophecy. But is that enough?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what is obvious. If you were never meant to live to begin with, perhaps your life should not continue so. Perhaps it should be devoted to all that there is you can give. For all you have is borrowed — none of it is yours. Nothing you have is deserved."

It hurts to hear it that way. Ororon has thought the same on many nights. Long, lonely ones.

"No," Ororon gasps. "It isn't true! My friends tell me it isn't!"

He remembers being very small, and having Granny look after him. He remembers asking her if he really should have died back then — and getting brutally reprimanded for such a question.

But, for all her violent lecturing, Granny's demeanor had changed, just for a few minutes. She looked soft. Sad. And maybe even afraid.

"No matter what," she said, "you have to promise me. No, you have to swear. There are people in our tribe who believe you should have died — and I want you to swear to me, on your life, that you won't EVER let what they say get to you!"

Ororon had looked at her passively and said, "Okay."

But that wasn't good enough for her. Citlali made him swear, up and down, that he wouldn't take any of it to heart. He wouldn't let anyone convince him he was better off dead. And he should never try to die to make up for it, or do something stupid.

And he made up for not dying anyways.

And now he's here.

"Please, sir," Ororon says. A little bit is coming back to him. "You said you had research. I don't know why you disguised yourself at first, but it doesn't bother me. I can still make myself useful by being your research aid. Just... I can't do anything like this. I can't even move."

That brings a smirk to cross the stranger's face. He tilts his head to one side.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, you will do nicely. Make no mistake, Bidii — you will be of immense value to my studies, exactly like you are now."

That brings a wince out of him. His ancient name, the rest of his identity — it's hardly a secret now, to all Natlan. But, for anyone to use it to address him — it carries a sense of intimacy that Ororon doesn't share with anybody. His own friends would never do that to him — they're too nice, too considerate about what would make him uncomfortable.

"I can't move a muscle," he says miserably. "Please. I don't know what you want with me but— I'm scared."

Coward, he tells himself. Caving so readily. Not even trying to act tough for longer. The inner facade has slipped — he's no longer trying to convince himself he's not in danger. If he's in so much trouble, though, he needs to act stronger than it... and he isn't.

The slow smile that has crept onto that man's face over the course of this interaction — it makes Ororon's spine tremble, and his stomach go cold.

"We will follow a strict schedule for today," the man says. "We are beginning a set of trials, with you as the test subject. I will take notes. You are a specimen uniquely fitted to the goals of my research. I assure you, this is quite consequential, and you are of more use with me than you would be anywhere else right now. Nobody will miss you enough to justify the difference."

Ororon's mouth has gone dry. Some of the concepts he just said are foreign to him. But what he does understand has his head spinning.

"No... Granny..."

"I assure you that all struggle is futile. The experiments will pass more easily if you do not put up mental resistance. There is no reason one such as yourself should be so upset anyhow."

"Granny! Kinich! Please — they'll be worried! Just — who are you?"

The Doctor tells him.

Ororon is very quiet now that he nows.

"I don't suppose that— well— I— I worked with Capitano, your superior. He— it's a bit unusual, but— I think he likes me. Respects me. ...I wonder if that holds any significance, to you."

There is no immediate response.

Then the Doctor raises his hands to his own neck, just to straighten out his collar.

He says, "It may be of interest to you that my colleague and I typically operate quite independently of each other, and that my actions do not necessarily fall under his jurisdiction, so long as I avoid direct interference with his schemes."

"If he knew about this..."

"He will not."

Ororon's brain scrambles for other sources of hope. If Capitano is nigh the Doctor's only superior... this is bad. Because Granny is going to be really angry, really fast — and she'll come down here and try to tear this godlike man a new one, and it can't possibly end well for her. Ororon could never want that in a thousand years.

But for Granny to even get down here, she'd have to find him, and thankfully, Ororon at least believes there's no trail anybody could follow. At least, not anybody less talented than...

...Oh.

The cavern is warm, but a cold sweat makes itself apparent on Ororon's brow.

He doesn't want Kinich to make it down here. Kinich is honorable. A good man, for all that he argues his own impartiality. And Kinich is nice.

And if anyone can get down here and pick a bone with Ororon's powerful captor, it can only be him.

The idea of Kinich making it down here, getting tangled up in this business and dying...

Ororon has no words for the prospect of it... except for just one sentiment. "Ancestors... please, don't allow this to pass."

The Doctor tilts his head. "What's that, now?"

"I... was merely praying to my ancestors that... what follows will not hurt too much."

"I think whether it will," says the Doctor, as though slighted, "depends on how much you resist."

Ororon winces. He wants to resist. Already, he knows he has to resist. Put up a fight. It's the least he can do, if there's someone like Granny out there who cares about him.

"But first," continues the Doctor, "I think you will require a brief demonstration. So that you will understand that it is beneficial for you and I both, should you cooperate. ...There may also be additional reward to be found, in your end state. Consider if you have ever felt like you've always had something... missing."

"Something missing?" Ororon repeats dumbly. He finds no recognizable concept in the foreigner's words. Like it's all kept vague on purpose. Catch him off guard on purpose.

"I may be getting ahead of myself," the Doctor drawls. "We should first establish a baseline of the potential... ahem... consequences, should you fail to facilitate the progression of our research together."

"I simply cannot believe that boy," Citlali snips, as she and Kinich pace the scene of the crime once more. "Honestly, he knows we're going to be back, and he just disappears!"

Kinich doesn't respond. Granny Citlali's gripes are oftentimes background noise. Something that would make the task difficult, if he wasn't practiced at tuning out this sort of talk. Call it too much exposure to Ajaw, but ranting and complaining does not draw Kinich's attention naturally.

But... there's an idea there, underlying. The observation seems true.

"What a retard," Ajaw says, floating around the edge of the clearing. "Does he want us to NOT help him or some shit? Somebody needs to explain to me the mental gymnastics of that idiot. Hello, logic? Point A to point B and then straight to point X-Y-Z?!? Make it make sense!!"

That, too, has some grain of truth in there, perhaps. Many people do not understand Ororon. But to Kinich, he's someone who comes across as highly logical. If not in every step, at least in broad strokes. Because there is always a reason guiding his actions, even if it's not a reason that immediately is understandable to an outsider.

"Change of plans," Kinich says. "It's possible he's missing for a reason that has nothing to do with the crime. Let's put the main investigation on hold. It's more important to make sure he isn't stuck or injured somewhere."

"Well, what kind of boy is he, to go get lost in his own woods? Ooh, when he shows back up, I'm going to throttle that kid's—"

"Granny, it's possible something may have happened. No man is invincible. Let's just assume he needs a rescue, until further notice."

"Geez," Ajaw adds. "I mean, he's dumb and all, but hero of Natlan? He'd better really be in some fucking trouble to need bailing out."

"I've found his trail," Kinich cuts in. "His path should be clear. Now, come on— let's see where the tracks lead us."

Ororon lets his thoughts go numb as the Doctor touches and prods him and places equipment onto him.

He doesn't like his hair getting smoothed back from his head.

He doesn't like the thin flesh of his ears getting rolled between two of the Doctor's fingers, and then folded down and clipped out of the way.

He doesn't like the sticky metal nodes that are pressed onto several points of his forehead (it feels almost like a massage, but Ororon's gut churns when he remembers there's going to be some underlying reason for this, and it's going to be sinister).

And, above all, he doesn't like feeling powerless.

"What's that?" Ororon asks, as the Doctor straps a thick, rubbery band (lit up by segments of some kind of foreign technology) around Ororon's right bicep.

"Don't worry about it," the Doctor says.

Ororon has the feeling that he, absolutely, is intended to worry about it — starting in just five seconds.

Chapter Text

The Doctor is setting some device up on the ground. It connects by wires to the strap on Ororon's arm.

He doesn't know what's in store for him. But he has to say something fast. Whatever the right words are to keep him from going through whatever's about to happen.

"Do you know what I am?" Ororon says with a shaky voice.

The Doctor pauses in his preparations.

"Is that a threat?" the huge man asks.

"No! Absolutely not! I know I'm not in a position to make threats. I meant it entirely literally. Nobody fully knows what I am. But you're a scientist. You... you could know something about what I am and where I come from."

Ororon realizes he almost sounds glad. Hopeful. That, if nothing else, he may get an answer out of all this.

The Doctor's response is to approach Ororon, take him by one ear, and then shine a light suddenly in his left eye — OUCH! He uses his fingers to hold Ororon's eyelids open, fully exposing his eye to the light — and then, once it's finally over — he does the other.

Ororon's sight is flooded with a blinding afterimage. Right... in his eyes... agh...

Ororon hears a mechanical click.

"The specimen is a human-dominant intercross, with the genetic subtype Desmodontinae. Features adopted from the subtype include ears, wings, fangs, and possible others. The subject is afflicted with the condition of having an incomplete soul, leaving it hypersensitive to stimulus. It lives an isolated, mostly-human life."

Some words are over Ororon's head, even as well-read as he is. But the ideas catch his attention.

"Say that again?" he says.

The afterimage fades. He sees the Doctor holding a mechanical box — some kind of recording device? — that he is speaking into.

"Acquired specimen is relatively talkative, likely due to anxiety of uncertainty. It is possible that this trait will change as the experiment progresses."

Ororon shuts his mouth.

His throat was feeling dry and cracked anyways.

"Sir, please..." Ororon asks, realizing this is really, really pushing the line. "Is it possible I may have some water? If I need to at least be a good test subject."

"...Request denied."

"I— I think that, I'll have an easier time doing whatever is needed for the experiment, if—"

"That will not be necessary. Bloodwork will now be drawn. The subject is expected to comply."

"What?"

The Doctor moves too swiftly. Ororon's vision is still nonfunctional. The needle is in the inside of Ororon's elbow before he has a real chance to protest. He gasps and squeals, feeling the very-much-not-right sensation of fluid being pulled from his veins. He is relieved when it stops and a small bandage is plastered over the injection site — although he knows it's for some clinical reason, rather than a kindness to Ororon.

The Doctor grunts, though not from pain, so much as stiffness. "Consider the advance notice my final act of courtesy. From here on, your role is now different. You may drop any delusion you have of being my cherished guest."

And then Ororon's sight functions again, and he is finally presented with it — an item that acts as part of the explanation.

It's a necklace... that bears, somehow, both a dead Vision and an ancient name.

"Sir?" Ororon utters, in confusion...

"I understand what you are," the captor says simply. "A broken soul... Tell me. Have you ever wondered what it would be like, to be complete? You may become so relatively painlessly, if you like. Perhaps we can even skip several steps that would be more... agonizing, to endure."

"You intend to make me whole?"

"Your body is able to function as a vessel. Your tribe had a use for you, pertaining to this. It seems you decided that you were too worthy for such a thing. Tell me, has the rest of your life really been worth it?"

"I have served my country. I have helped them survive the war against the Abyss... surely that counts for something..."

"Yes, but you did so in spite of a previous sin— not because of it. And are you so certain that another would not have filled your place? Perhaps you robbed them of it. It is a miracle that any spirit of Natlan saw you as fitting for an ancient name. Do not be so sure that it is rightfully yours."

"What about the one you are holding?" Ororon snaps. "The physical name should have vanished until the recognition of its next bearer. The Vision belongs in a grave."

Ororon knows he shouldn't have this kind of lip, and that he's very shortly going to regret it, but he thinks of Granny and her practice. She would call the Doctor's flaunting of a dead person's relics desecration.

"You are incentivizing me towards the more disagreeable methods of reaching today's objectives. But you are lucky, in that I recognize that curiosity is a gift... the guiding trait of humanity. A divine birthright, to those who are genius — something that no code or law has the right to stand in the way of. So I will tell you." The Doctor grins, and jingles the necklace in front of Ororon's face like it's keys on a carabiner. "Does your tribe have any record of a fierce warrior named Cuauhtemoc?"

"Likely many. Some children are called that today. I do not know who specifically you speak of."

"They must be unaware of its original bearer. He perished over a thousand years hence." The Doctor speaks with a jovial tone in his very voice — an unsettling good mood. "Cuautemoc lived with bloodthirst. He accomplished great things for the Masters of the Night-Wind — but only because the leaders in his time recognized his more disconcerting personality traits, and made sure they at least went to a productive good use. He was kept far away from children, and even far away from women, except for some female warriors that surpassed him in the battlefield, and knew they were at least strong enough to handle him." The Doctor swings his hand — the Vision (Pyro, Ororon sees now) and Name swing around all the way, like some fidget toy. "He would have murdered innocents, had a bounty, and torn apart the purest warriors of Natlan, if the Pyro Archon of the time did not recognize his psychopathy and unique talents, and ensure that all was put to good use against the Abyss."

"It is a shame he is not remembered now, then," Ororon says. "I am sure... whatever his motives... his deeds were remembered for a long time."

"His motives? A shame? If he were alive today, Mavuika herself would be pursuing him. His bloodlust would have no home in the Natlan of today."

"I mean... this is just a hunch... but maybe he wasn't such a bad guy. Maybe... maybe he just couldn't help being born wanting to hurt and destroy things."

"Funny you should say that. This man, like yourself, was believed to have only a partial soul. So do you only defend him because of your own abnormal nature?"

"I don't want to say so. I don't think I understand him, because I don't even like fighting. Whatever his soul was like... mine is different. Even if he had my same affliction."

"So why defend him? You could view him as reprehensible."

"Maybe it's because I don't understand him. I don't know him, so maybe it was impossible for him not to be a psychopath. Since we don't know, maybe we just... shouldn't judge him."

"His very Ancient Name means carnage."

Ororon squints to read it. Mauaji.

Yeah... that's an unusual one.

"If that's the case... even so. I can't throw stones."

Ororon means it. Ororon's history is fuzzy, but honestly, good for him that he lived in a time where there was so much fighting to do. And good for him that, whoever his Archon was, they handled that guy responsibly. Made sure he still had some kind of purpose.

Because if Ororon was bloodthirsty and violent... he hopes that Mavuika would direct him towards something he wouldn't have to feel bad about.

"We will see, then, how his nature fares in a marriage to your own," the Doctor says smoothly.

The pieces fit together.

Ororon tenses and strains inside of his restraints.

Every sound suddenly feels like it hurts his ears. He is sure his pupils are very small.

He was scared, before, on a physical level. But that does not compare to the way the bottom drops out of his stomach now.

(He wishes his heart would stop beating. He wishes he would wake up and find himself in his own bed. He wishes he was anywhere but here.)

"That's what you're trying to do?!"

"Why else would I share so much with you? It isn't because I view you as any kind of human. Telling you the details will make your mind prepared, so long as any part of your soul is willing to undergo this."

"I don't want to share a body with a psychopath!"

"You won't have to. You will be the same person. There will be no more Ororon. There will not be Cuauhtemoc yet again. You will be a new soul — one that brings test results and a fitting vessel for further experimentation, and also, perhaps, a bloodthirsty hound to accompany my side."

"I have friends! They don't want me to go! Please!"

"And have your friends come for you?"

"I don't want them to."

"Then you will do as I—"

"No! They wouldn't want me to go down without a fight!"

A hand clamps around Ororon's throat.

His breath dies.

His eyes bulge.

Nothing escapes him but a pitiful squeak.

He sees the Doctor's mask uncomfortably close to his face.

"You will have nothing more to say," the Doctor says. "I find I will persuade you to join your soul to his rather quickly. Words will not be needed."

The tingling begins at the ends of Ororon's right-hand fingertips.

He stares down at them. He has to strain to do so.

He has almost no room to do it. The restraints are tight. And his neck will have fresh bruises, from what the Doctor just did to him.

He watches, slowly, and with increasing horror and awareness, as the tips of his fingers disintegrate, and a raw and burning feeling eats up through him. The pain begins as agony, and it does not diminish.

Ororon's voice is hoarse, but it gives way to a cracked and raw scream.

He has never lost a body part before. But watching it crawl upwards — watching his dominant hand simply vanish, in an incinerating and torturous pain — realizing he is losing something essential he cannot get back — the horror overtakes his mind even moreso than the pain.

He briefly has the smallest degree of freedom. When he has lost the flesh past one of the restraints, and can move his increasingly-vanishing forearm in an aimless, instinctive flail that accomplishes precisely nothing — only for the feeling to steadily crawl up the rest of the way, with tears streaming down his cheeks now and his whole body feeling flooded with heat, as his voice screams and howls and starts breaking his vocal cords past their limits, but then he continues to scream even with a voice that has gone totally hoarse.

It ends at the top, when his right shoulder has been turned into a stump. Ororon, looking down, feels like a stranger in his own body. He still feels the phantom limb. That was part of him. It belongs there.

...And now it's gone.

"Please," Ororon whimpers, aware that there's tears and snot streaming down his face from his crying and screaming. "Make it stop."

He's not referring to that "procedure." He means his life. He doesn't want to experience whatever else this man intends to put him through.

"But this is just the beginning."

"I only have so much body for you to dissolve! Please!"

"I have had to work within a limit."

Ororon feels like a child now, pathetically pleading to avoid some kind of punishment. "I want my arm! I want my arm back!!"

The Doctor is rummaging in his medical bag. He pulls out some tool that looks like... well, it's got a wheel on it. A tiny spiked wheel.

"Then I have some good news for you," the Doctor says, touching it to Ororon's skin and rolling it upwards.

Ororon chokes and splutters. It's not that THIS one hurts! It's more that... he just feels so sensitive, all of a sudden, and this one is threatening to hurt so badly.

Ororon realizes where he's being touched. (His mind was so fractured for a second there, that the obvious wasn't even registering with him.)

Is this even real?

...It is real. The Doctor is patiently rolling the wheel up and down the sensitive spots on the inside of his right forearm. (Vulnerable. He doesn't like that kind of touch. But it means...)

He didn't lose a single bit of flesh. Ororon experiences a brief and fluttering relief.

...followed by a chilling sensation like the blood all draining from his entire body.

"That was a demonstration," the Doctor says.

"A... demonstration?"

"It was not meant for results. No soul assimilation was attempted."

"That— wasn't to force my soul to—"

"No. I am not able to force your soul. But I am able to persuade you. Just now, I was showing you what you have to expect, during our time together. Because we can certainly repeat this, until you feel more... open-minded."

Tears spring to Ororon's eyes. He no longer makes attempt to hide it from his torturer.

He can't possibly wish for the others... Granny, Kinich, even Ajaw... to endanger themselves attempting a rescue.

But they wouldn't want for him to... as unworthy as his life is... as much as he isn't a full person...

...they wouldn't want him to cease to be himself.

Their wishes mean he must endure this and not give in.

Because of what they want, he must stay here and let this happen to him, over and over and over again... all without giving in...

...until, perhaps, his psyche finally gives way, and his body grants him the mercy of dropping dead in this miserable place.

"I will have you know that I am very patient," the captor says. "I have a lot of time to kill right now, and I am eager for the results of this experiment. So we will take as long as needs be to find results."

No. Then there's no hope of him getting bored and leaving.

Oh, no, no, no, no...

"I'm sorry, everyone," Ororon says his voice now totally broken. He is thinking of his friends, but also the animals he was taking care of, and even the garden he'd meant to restore. "I guess I'm not coming back after all..."

Chapter Text

Kachina wrings her hands nervously.

"What do you mean?" she asks. "I went down to the Masters of the Night-wind and nobody said they had seen him... and he wasn't at his house... so, I— I was hoping you would know something—"

Mavuika looks down at Kachina.

This isn't easy news to break. And she likes to think that she's gotten halfway decent over the years, at talking to kids about serious topics... but it hurts every time. She can’t fully say that it’s gotten easier.

Mavuika is kneeling to speak to Kachina on her own level, and her mouth is a thin, tense line of seriousness.

"Kachina, sweetie," she says, "nobody knows where Ororon is right now. His home and garden were vandalized by some criminal, and then he vanished, even though he had made plans with others. Granny Itzli is worried sick. Kinich has been investigating day in and day out, but he hasn't found anything yet."

"But— but— he'll be okay, won't he? He'll come back?"

Mavuika closes her eyes.

She has to be very, very careful how she responds to this.

She wants to comfort Kachina and say everything will be okay. She wants to say that Kinich is capable and will bring Ororon back, and it's just taking a little while.

...But they don’t know yet that Ororon’s coming back, or that there’s an Ororon left to save. They can’t be certain.

And she knows that, if she chose to assure Kachina but their worst fears really came true... it would break that poor child. If the grownups told her everything would be okay and then Ororon never came back — or worse, he came back a corpse —

Kachina would never trust her an adult ever again.

So that means Mavuika has to do the most grownup thing of all.

"I don't know," she admits, placing her hands on Kachina's little shoulders. "I'm sorry. Everything’s uncertain right now."

Kachina's eyes are watering. She raises one gloved hand to wipe the tears.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asks, in a sniffly, weak tone of voice.

That's a good question. Mavuika closes her eyes just to think about it. On the one hand, it is true that action quells anxiety, and involvement could give Kachina a feeling of power in this hopeless situation.

But on the other hand... Kachina, a hero of the Abyss war she may be, is only a child. And it is possible that the investigation could uncover things that are deeply child-unfriendly.

Mavuika stills her pounding nerves, the fire in her veins, the tension that makes her want to snap and just go hurt whoever did this to one of her children.

And she says, "Ifa is going to Ororon's place to set the plants right and see what damage he can fix. If you ask him, I'm sure he'll appreciate an extra set of hands."

Kachina worriedly goes up the trail to Ifa's veterinarian practice, and clutches little Ayo in her arms.

She normally might be taking Turbo Twirly, and letting Ayo ride with her. But the mood is damp right now. Somehow, it doesn't feel like it would be right.

So instead, she's just walking, sadly, but like everything is normal.

She hears rustling and rummaging from the hut up the hill. She hears some under-the-breath swearing, she thinks, too — but it's quickly followed up with a personable "now where'd you go, darn thing?" The voice does not sound genuinely angry.

Ifa hears Kachina's approach before she has the chance to say hi first. Ifa stands upright really fast, and with that fast-moving sense of "pretend there isn't anything wrong" he has about him during those times that Kachina has walked in on something a little sensitive that he didn't want her to see — like a Saurian with an open wound he was working on stitching up, or, one time, one he was doing a surgery on — both of those times, Ifa hurried to make sure Kachina got more than a glimpse of something that could have frightened her.

This time, though, Kachina doesn't see any patient present. Ifa's just going through a ton of his belongings and arranging a complicated selection of tools and medicines into his doctor's bag. So he could be reorganizing, except — well, except for the fact that Kachina thinks he looks angry.

Kachina, on instinct, hangs back — even though when Ifa looks at Kachina, the angry look vanishes right away. He is brightness and smiling and genuinely happy to see her.

"Howdy!" he says, moving his organizing out of the way. "What brings you in here, Kachina? ...Oh, don't tell me. Is there anything wrong with your little buddy?"

Kachina lets Ayo approach ahead of her. Ayo's seen Ifa before — he's the vet for Ayo and the rest of Ayo's surviving family — so he naturally is friendly with him, and willing to approach. Ifa would never hurt a baby Saurian — or any Saurian, unless they were violent.

Ayo has no worry on his face as he leans in to Ifa's hand, but Ifa must see the empty stare that Kachina has been directing at everything this morning, because his own smile vanishes in an instant.

"What's up, partner?" he says, as Kachina slowly walks in, starting to feel her own eyes water again.

"I..." Kachina starts. "I... I..."

Kachina can't find the words to say it. But the way Ifa moves — he shuts the door behind Kachina for her, and he gets a woven blanket he'd left on a nearby table, and drapes it over her shoulders for her. (It's probably meant for Saurians, but it smells clean.)

Kachina finally gets the breath to use her voice.

"I found out about Ororon," she says.

Her words are shaky.

"Oh," Ifa says.

Ifa sits down next to Kachina.

He places a hand on her head.

He lets her cry into his chest.

"I don't know that I have any words of comfort," Ifa says. "I... I don't want to say it's alright when it really ain't. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Us grownups are doing everything we can, but we don't know yet that he's gonna be okay. ...I figured I wouldn't sugar-coat that."

Kachina sniffs back a huge mass of snot.

"Mavuika said I could come with you to check up on Ororon's house," she says. "I... I want to do something. Because I want him to come back!"

"And you're a real good soul for that. I think Ororon'd love to just come back and see that all the damage that some troublemaker did to his place was all undone — that he didn't have to worry 'bout a thing. We took care of it for him while he was troubled with gettin' back to us. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

Kachina nods. She wants that. She wants Ororon to feel that way. She wants him to come back and for everything to be alright. Everything sorted out for him.

Because, especially if he's gotten hurt... won't he need a fixed-up place to recover in? And for other people to take care of his plants so he doesn't have to strain himself? Kachina thinks Ororon, whatever's happened to him, will need to focus just on getting better. He should leave the rest to everyone else!

Ifa and Kachina make a good team. At least when it comes to gardening. Because Ifa knows more about the plants, and Kachina is good at plowing and moving dirt!

"Great work, Kachina. Now, fix up that fence-post there!"

Kachina is also good with a hammer and nails. They had to go out into the woods and chop some fresh lumber, but replacing the broken planks of fence and porch is worth it. Kachina, under Ifa's instruction, has also irrigated canals so Ororon's vegetables can stay watered more easily — and a lot of the damaged plants are still salvageable. They just need to be rounded up and put in their new homes!

"Look at that!" Ifa says. "We've finished most of the work already!"

Kachina beams. She feels so proud of herself. And she feels proud of the decision to do this, for a friend who's going to appreciate it. For a person who might be having a rough time of it and will need the support.

But something isn't right.

"Wait, hang on— where's Ayo?" she asks quickly.

"Ayo? Hm... I think I see some tracks here. Let's hurry!"

They find Ayo halfway down the hillside, down in the woods.

"Ayo!" Kachina calls. "What are you doing? Why did you run off?!"

Ayo is rummaging in the bushes and scratching at the ground.

"Easy there, buddy. What do you have there?" Ifa asks. His tone, notably, sounds more worried. "Woah there. Hold up. Give that to me."

Kachina, confused, watches as Ifa shoos Ayo away for a second — and picks up one small, slender object found in the dirt.

"It's a good thing we chased him," Ifa says. "I wouldn't want Ayo to get poked by this thing. Especially if we don't know what else it was used for."

"That looks like... um... not a good thing for someone to just trash out here in the woods."

"It isn't. And it would be very out of character, if Ororon himself was responsible for this — which, I'm guessing he isn't. This is litter someone else left behind."

"...What could it have been used for?"

"Never you mind that, Kachina. I'm glad you and Ayo came with me today — because if this is related to Ororon's disappearance, it's really good that we found it. That, and we don't want a bird or some critter to come across it instead."

Ifa has a grimace on his face. That's his disgusted look he makes, like if he has a patient that he's figured out has been mistreated by people in some kind of way. But what the implications here are — what the needle is for — escapes Kachina's comprehension. She doesn't even know if Ifa himself uses something like that. Kachina is confused.

"Say, Kachina — why don't you make your way back home? I'm interested in sending this over to Kinich. I'll have to track him down, though, so it could take awhile."

"I'll do it," Kachina says hopefully. She wants to be helpful.

Ifa shakes his head. "No can do. This is grownup business. You and Ayo have done great, but I want your involvement in all this to end here."

"Aww..."

Ifa has the mysterious needle; he's wrapping it in a piece of paper, and buckling it into one of the leather pouches on his belt. Some place that it can't fall out or poke it's way through.

"Say," he says to Kachina. "It's gettin' dark. The Children of Echoes are a bit far— you need anyone to take you there?"

"I'm fine! I can walk my way home, I've done it a million times!"

"Yeah, but all this funny business has me not wanting you bein' on your own right now—"

"But— but—"

As they come back to Ororon's cabin, they hear a loud and clueless voice.

"Yo, Ororon! I brought back that surfboard that I said you could keep to display inside of your house but then broke when I was testing it out in front of you and I know you weren't super bummed about it but I still wanted to fix it and touch up the paint job! I'm really sorry! It's done now, but I'm sorry! Let me know if I messed up the paint anywhere on it!"

"Ohhhhhhhhh no," Ifa says in a low drawl.

Kachina had been confused by the voice's presence. But her ears droop in sudden displeasure when she figures out what's up.

"Ororon... you'll come out, right? I'm... really sorry. You're not mad at me, are you?"

Mualani isn't a short woman. And she normally stands tall and proud. But she looks small as she stands in front of Ororon's empty cabin and calls out to a person who isn't there.

"Mualani," Kachina says, walking up slowly, "Ororon isn't home right now. ...And he might not be back. Ever."

Kachina doesn't realize how heartbreaking the thing is until she says it and wishes she could take it back.

(She of all people wasn't supposed to say it. She of all people was supposed to be dumb and optimistic and stuck in denial about it.)

"Kachina? What are you— Kachina, girl, what are you talking about? You— you can't possibly mean he's dead, could you?"

Kachina hadn't meant it that way. Not dead, just vanished. But when she opens her mouth to dispute it... her words die. Maybe she could have meant that. It's like she's coming to terms with it all at once, and... and it scares her.

"What's going on?" Mualani says, sounding bewildered and— and angry. Kachina knows it can't possibly be anger for her, but seeing Mualani look that way — actually look intense and strained and unhappy — oh, it makes Kachina want to hide somewhere and curl up into a tiny little ball.

Mualani must see her shaking, though, because she says, "Kachina?" in a soft, steady (still confused, but no longer hostile) tone of voice, and kneels down to Kachina's height as Kachina finally approaches her.

"We don't know anything about him bein' dead," Ifa says, finally cutting into the tension. "We know he's missin', and that he didn't have plans on leavin'. Granny Itzli and Kinich were bewildered when they couldn't find him here. And it turns out he can't be found anywhere."

"...Oh."

Kachina can't say anything. But Mualani is frowning at her apologetically, and is holding her arms open.

It's not clear whether this is an "I'm sorry for looking like I was angry at you" hug, or a "consolation for a horrible and unexplainable situation" hug. But it's there, a wide-open invitation, and Kachina feels like she needs it more than she's ever needed a hug in her life.

She takes it, and lets Mualani rub her back and her ears until she's too exhausted to sob anymore about the very real fear she has of Ororon being dead (or worse— but what can be worse than dead?), and then she just lay there, motionless, in Mualani's arms.

Mualani catches a glimpse, over Kachina's small figure, of Ifa standing there with Ayo, with one hand cupped onto the little Saurian's head.

When the hug ends, Kachina goes off to Ororon's gardens one last time, "to survey our hard work!" she says. Ayo's with her. The little guy normally doesn't miss a chance to dig up something fun, but he seems observant of the boundary of fields that belong to Ororon.

It's just Ifa and Mualani, standing in front of Ororon's cabin.

"Mualani," Ifa says, laying a heavy hand respectfully onto her shoulder. "Kachina and I was lookin' around, and we found a possible piece of evidence."

"Evidence? What kind—"

"I don't really want to elaborate, in case it's nothin'. But I'm takin' it to Kinich, stat, and Kachina, she... well, I think she could use somebody to take her home. ...And maybe sleep over with her, play games with her, take her mind off all this. Get her feelin' less serious. ...You understand."

Mualani nods.

"Yeah," she concurs, wearily.

Ifa gives a strained smile.

"People say I'm alright with the little folk," he says. "But you've got a talent I don't, Mualani. ...The world needs more people like you. Especially when things like this happen."

When "things like this happen," Mualani tends to feel a little clueless. She's not smart like a lot of other people are. She doesn't have as much to pitch in to these serious investigations.

But... there will always be kids like Kachina around. And not even just kids, but — sensitive people. People who have trouble not hurting. People who have trouble not feeling the bad things they see happening around them.

"I'm sure Kachina's parents won't mind if I stay over," Mualani says. "I'll keep her company. It's a good idea."

Mualani doesn't know how Ifa can look happy at a time like this, but there's genuine fondness in his kind eyes as he says, "Good."

The surprise visit from Ifa is the first real lead Kinich can say he has here.

The evidence... it says nothing, on its own. He does not know how to track it physically.

So he won't try to track it physically.

Kinich finds Citlali perched in a high place.

The cliff doesn't look dangerous, exactly. Not when she has a giant pillow to lounge on that will hug her body so she doesn't even fall.

But still, Kinich wonders what she is thinking.

He grappling-hooks his way up to the spot, says her name firmly, and lets her throw her book to the side in fright when she wakes up from the pages-on-her-face nap she'd been taking.

Citlali seems to be taking a second to realize where she is when she blurts, "my novel!"

Kinich sighs. Without looking, he fires his hook downwards and to the side, and reels in the precious book: a salacious-looking volume with two conventionally-attractive royals passionately embracing on the cover, their open lips mere millimeters apart from each other.

"A valuable text, I take it," he says, handing it to Citlali as though he has no idea what it contains.

"One could say that. If you must know, it is an advance reader copy!"

"Damn, loser! How do you read so much of this trash that someone actually decides you're the queen of smut, whose opinion is so highly esteemed that— wait, what are you doing— KINICH, I'LL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP!"

Kinich doesn't mess around. He knows Citlali is too sad and worried and coping badly right now to handle Ajaw well. So he banishes the annoying welp before he can irritate her any more.

Citlali blearily blinks at him.

"You don't have to do that on my account," she says wearily. "I know you'll pay for it later."

Kinich shakes his head. "Don't consider it a personal favor. Having him out right now would impede our mission."

It's a half-truth. He wants to spare Citlali the irritation, but he also wants her attention. He has made a single discovery. Something that could mean nothing — or, possibly, everything. He doesn't know which is more concerning.

"The tracks were well-hidden," Kinich says, "but I found some telltale signs. I think Ororon was accosted by somebody."

Citlali, in an instant, no longer seems drowsy and leisurely. She sits fully upright. "Accosted how?"

Kinich shakes his head. "I don't have a good picture. All I know is that something happened. Some kind of struggle. Whoever did it really did try to cover their tracks."

"It wasn't an accident. ...And he didn't just wander off."

"There is one other thing," Kinich says. "I don't know what it means myself. The item is strange to me. But I think it might be medical. ...It looks like something odd to find near Ororon's turf."

"Let me see."

"Handle it carefully. It might be useful for your tactics."

Citlali takes the small wooden box Kinich hands her. (Kinich wanted to transport it as carefully as possible.)

And she holds up...

...a long, slender, metal needle of some kind.

Not for sewing— it doesn't have an eye. But it's... well... something. Citlali has been in this world for so much longer than he has, even if she too has never left Natlan, so — well, maybe she knows something. If nothing else, maybe from her reading: she has a lot of time to read. (He knows she doesn't just read self-indulgently.)

In response to Kinich's inquisitive look, Citlali's face seems to go pale...

"Moonsilver," Citlali says, after a long moment.

"Come again?"

"These medical needles, or ones similar to them, were common during a drug epidemic something like fifty years ago. It was imported into Natlan — it isn't anything native to us, or that inherently correlates to any tradition we have. But it was marketed successfully to more than one tribe — to the Children of Echoes as a party drug, to the Scions of the Canopy as a performance enhancer, and even to the Masters of the Night-wind as a spiritual 'aid.' All of this was a lie, though — the drug had disastrous effects. People got jittery in a way that did permanent damage to their muscles, but that wasn't even enough to dissuade them, because... well, whatever the psychological effects were, the first dose was enough to make someone become singularly focused on whatever they had to do to get their next fix. And then, after several doses, the body couldn't take it any more. It took upwards of a month for that to happen, but when it did — half the Tribes had once-sensible people turned into addicts and dying in painful fits from the drug. It was horrifying."

"...Who did this?"

"Greedy merchants. People preying on our relative cultural isolation from the rest of Teyvat. It was no sustainable scheme in the long term, and several people were apprehended and punished — but the damage was done. It was novel to us... and we were caught deeply off-guard."

"Fifty years is a long time for this thing to survive," Kinich says.

"That's the thing. It doesn't look like an old needle. So, it's likely not just a piece of junk that everyone who's lived near that forest missed for fifty years. It even still looks shiny. Either somebody's trying to reintroduce Moonsilver or another drug... or it is a legitimate medical device. Just... not one that's in common usage around here."

Kinich looks on the thing with scorn.

"Any way of narrowing it down?" he says.

"I can do some divination. It'll mean me staying up late, but I'm happy just to finally be able to do something. No results 'til the morning, though, so you may as well be off and go get some sleep."

That's frustrating. But it isn't nothing. Granny Itzli gave him a wealth of information, although only possibly relevant... and she is about to have a much clearer picture of whether the needle is tied to Ororon's disappearance or not. It might even give Kinich a place to start tracking the guy. This is, really, tremendous progress.

But what of Ororon when they find him? Could he be drug-addled? Something worse than that, even?

In his mind, he is imagining Ororon not himself. An Ororon who has been defiled by some wicked and unnatural influence... and made to crave more of a substance that will kill him from the inside outwards. Is that Ororon still a man worth saving?

...Kinich closes his eyes.

Whatever they find of him... Kinich is going to see to it that Ororon is rewarded with peace. A chance to be saved. Whatever's happening right now, whatever he's becoming, it isn't his fault. And he deserves to be saved.

Kinich stands on a high cliff, west of Ororon's place.

...Kinich isn't sure he knows how to feel these things. So he might not be experiencing anything at all here.

It's not like anybody understands Kinich himself. Hell, he may feel strongly about protecting people who are good, and people who are innocent. But nobody has truly understood him — his emotional disconnect, the vacancy he senses in his own gaze when he spies his reflection.

...He thinks there is nobody who would understand his decisions. His choice of enduring pain, discomfort, irritation, and the knowledge that his body will become a possessed corpse once he dies, all for the sake of fleeting power while he's alive — power not even wielded wrathfully, but selectively. Nobody's going to understand that.

But the rest of it, though... the emptiness... the sense of being unsure if he's supposed to feel lonely or not... the curiosity as to how to feel lonely, when this is simply what he's used to...

He thinks there's one person who gets that. Exactly one.

...And right now that person is cut off from him, missing, stuck, captive, whatever the situation — maybe not alone, but separated at least from the people who care about him positively. That's enough to upset Ororon so much that he itches. The injustice makes him gnash his teeth. The unpaid cost is like a debt begging him to collect.

Ororon never does anything to deserve misfortune. He's too benign. He's just a guy.

(Where Kinich and Ororon differ is, Kinich is anything but "just a guy." Kinich is a lunatic, and merciless, and a hardened killer when it comes down to it. Ororon, on the other hand... Kinich is pretty sure the dude just wants to water his flowers, save baby animals, and maybe bake some bread.)

For Ororon's sake... Kinich really, really helps Ororon is still there mentally. And if not... well, Kinich is willing to flay alive any human who dares mess with the Ororon that he knows.

They already have one piece of evidence now. One potential lead. But that isn't enough. Kinich is going to find more.

Kinich, fist clenched, begins his way along the trail.

Chapter Text

The seventh (twelth? hundredth?) time is not easier than the first. The sensation is convincing enough that Ororon, in his desperation, forgets that he has lost his arm over and over again without ever losing it for real.

Other things are happening too. Blood samples. Skin taken off of him. It hurts. But nothing is so distressing as losing part of him. Having HIS bodily integrity trampled.

And then the Doctor does it yet again.

Ororon whimpers. But he tries not to cry.

"I don't know what I did wrong to end up here," he says. "But whatever it is... I'm sorry."

The Doctor slaps him.

"Shut up, boy," he growls. "Your pleading is irrelevant to me. You are here for a reason — and that is that you are the ideal component for this piece of research. Will you not cave in? Allow yourself to become a complete soul? Does it not make sense?"

"Maybe in another life, I would want that," Ororon whines. "But— there's something — some reason why— I can't! I just can't!"

"And why not, when you are so heavily incentivized?"

"I don't know why! I can't find the reason! I— there's just something stopping me!"

"...I see. Then, we shall continue to have a long afternoon together. Hopefully this will become fruitful. And if not..." the menace's voice suddenly takes on a hungry, eager tone. "...Perhaps we should start planning your dissection."

Ororon has to endure it, tearfully, as the Doctor draws long marker lines across his body.

"No!" he yells (although it's more of a squeak) as his abdomen gets diagrammed. "You— you can't cut in there! Not there!"

Ororon hears a low "tsk" from his captor. It almost sounds wistful. "You remind me so much of another patient of mine. I wonder where she is nowadays... She isn't dead, at least. She has the pleasure of eagerly awaiting my return."

The Doctor's words are beyond Ororon. Who in Teyvat is he referring to? Surely someone Ororon has never met, if she isn't Natlanese.

Ororon finds easy cause to doubt the Doctor's words; whoever 'she' is, Ororon is highly skeptical that any 'patient' could ever miss the Doctor.

...Ororon grits his teeth. A new possibility has entered his mind. The longer he can stay alive here, the more it will keep the Doctor away from some other poor person to torture. Could this be Ororon's purpose in being here? Something that gives meaning to the sacrifice of the boundaries of his own body?

Ororon lowers his gaze to the floor.

"Do what you will," he says. "I will continue to resist."

And yet Ororon changes his tune.

Pins are inserted into his skin — pressure points? nerves? — and he is howling with tears.

"PLEASE!" he roars. "PLEASE, JUST— ANYTHING BUT THAT!"

It's only half a dozen. But he feels he cannot take even one more.

The Doctor is looming before him, holding up a small motorized saw. Ororon does not know if the next time he's going to lose his arm for real. Or if his guts will spill onto the floor.

"You are too valuable for me to kill," he says. "This is quite a harmless way for me to persuade you. You know the path to saving yourself from this pain. Mortals are so baffling to me... why ever would you still resist?"

Ororon thinks about the mere possibility of this man leaving here and finding another victim. He probably will eventually. But the longer Ororon can hang on... the more he can delay it. What if this man would experiment on a Saurian? A child? Ororon's got half a soul — he doesn't know what this suffering would be like for anyone with a full one.

"Because I have to," he says. "Because— because loyalty to my Archon compels me."

The excuse comes out as a nonsense one... but the longer he thinks on it, the more it makes sense. He served his purpose in the war against the Abyss... perhaps this truly is to be his second purpose. The reason he was allowed to survive that war in the first place.

And, Mavuika... His Archon... someone stronger, worthier, more glorious than he could ever be...

Don't give in.

The thought makes him jump.

It isn't his. And the voice it was in... Familiar. Female.

A single tear slips from his eye.

And the agony starts over again.

His thoughts circle like vultures over rotting prey.

The sensations remain the same in intensity. But with each passing moment, he finds he cannot bear it. He has no endurance. He passed his breaking point ages ago. Could he really be this weak?

"Please," he whimpers.

But the plea is a vague one. He will not give in to the Doctor's single out for him. He can't. He... he doesn't know why, he just knows that it would hurt him!

But why?

Ororon's mind is shot through suddenly with fleeting, few, precious moments of salvation.

The sun's warmth on his skin. Feeling exposed, bare, borderline freakish — but in a wholly different way than he is in the torture lab. Ororon wears swim trunks, and slowly wades into a warm pool.

"Water's nice, isn't it?" Mualani coos to him.

Ororon knows he is unmistakable in his bare tattoos, no hooded ears, and, most of all, easily visible droopy wings at his sides. He's a little careful about getting them fully wet — which is why he prefers the shallows. But, even so, he lifts them out of the water's way.

Mualani seems to notice that he can't enjoy himself fully. She pouts. "Sorry. Can I... get you anything to drink?"

Ororon thinks on it.

He likes alcohol... but when he last tried having some, Granny kept steering him away from it!

Ororon bows his head the slightest amount. "Just... do you have one of those little fruit juices? ...The kind you let Kachina have."

"Ohhh, I gotcha. Sure thing!"

The memory is barely enough to provide any respite.

Ororon is conscious again of where he is. Pins driven into his chest. Body heavily restrained.

And arms... both his arms... vanished.

Tears water in his eyes. He knows what's going on. He just... he just needs him to put them back already! He doesn't like looking at himself like this! It feels wrong!

"Please just go ahead and start it over," he whines. "I... I'll take it having to happen again, just... I can't look at this any longer!"

"And how are you certain this isn't the time I have done it for real?"

Ororon realizes he doesn't understand. He has no proof. He could do it for real at any moment... and Ororon will not be the wiser.

"Please, sir, I... please, please put them back! I'm begging you!"

The Doctor does an unusually exaggerated gesture.

A booted foot lifted. Pressed to Ororon's stomach.

Pressing in hard.

Ororon exhales, feeling the pressure on his guts.

"Beg harder," the Doctor growls.

Ororon cannot even speak...

And that is when he is spared by another flash of memory.

Of running with Kachina, through a side passageway at the Children of Echoes.

"I know the loud music makes your ears hurt," she says. "I— I'm really sorry about that. But there's a place where it's better! I promise!"

Ororon covers his ears. The musicians have talent, yes... but the exact mode of the rhythmic shouting with Xilonen's deejaying hurts him. He's too sensitive.

Kachina points up ahead. The passage is cool and dark. "Do you... do you see that hollow with the crystals up there? Try sitting down there..."

Ororon sits, cross-legged, where Kachina directs him to.

And the sound suddenly changes.

Waves of it, bouncing, reverberating... resonating with the crystals.

Ororon uncovers his ears.

"Huh," he says.

Like this... the music sounds soft like a lullabye.

Kachina knew exactly what he needed... no, not only what he needed, but what feels right to him to be in. Somewhere that makes him feel good for being himself. Like his senses are what they need to be, for him to appreciate that which sounds best.

"Thank you," Ororon says.

"No problem!" Kachina squeaks. "I know it's a little cramped, uh... so I'll just let you have the spot..."

"But it's your spot, really," Ororon says. "I think there's space for both of us. Er... unless you think it's weird."

Kachina's eyes go big. "I... I'd only fit there if I sat on your lap."

Ororon makes a face. "It... it might have been weird. You can just forget it."

"No, I, um... I think it sounds great! And, I've actually been meaning to ask..."

"...Yeah?"

"...could you inspect my ears?" Kachina pleads. "I... I think I have ticks, and I haven't been able to get them out, and they've been hurting me..."

Ororon's heart clenches.

Of course. Of course he will. She's so tiny, but she trusts him of all people to help with her ears...

Kachina and Ororon sit wordlessly, sharing the tiny space, as Ororon uses sharp nails to search through the fur on Kachina's ears, to find and kill the offending ticks...

He has to be careful, so careful, with Kachina herself. He can never let her come to harm...

Ororon cries out, gutturally, as the Doctor takes a different strategy entirely: striking him with a metal pipe.

Ororon had assumed it was refuse. Junk. Something left over, from the construction of this room.

But it collides with his body, again and again, bruising him when he doesn't even have the strength to react or twitch anymore.

"You will relinquish your soul to the experiment! You WILL do it before I get tired of you, and decide it is easier simply to end you, you insolent, worthless fragment of a person!"

Ororon's cry becomes high-pitched — feminine, even. Oh, Archons, it's not even about the pain anymore so much as it is the terror... and the random, rapidly-changing, unending nature of this torture.

Ororon is exhausted. He wonders if death might be a relief.

But he can't die...

"I can't do it," he grunts. "I can't... give myself up... can't do what you're asking..."

The beating continues. "And why not?"

"I don't know! Not exactly!"

It's true; he doesn't.

But he can picture a warm voice, a serious gaze...

...someone who never, ever jokes around in his eyes, but for one reason or another has never seen him as lesser...

"I ask you this again," says the Pyro Archon, to Ororon's hunched and small self. "You are able to assure me that you are no longer in any sort of danger, from members of your tribe?"

The scrawnier teenaged Ororon gulps and nods hurriedly. "Yes ma'am. I promise. I— I don't want anybody to get into trouble."

Mavuika steeples her fingers, bending down to look more closely at him.

"That wasn't the question," she says. "I need to know that you're okay. Granny Itzli has a close watch on you, but if anyone might do anything, it's better we know what to watch out for ahead of time. ...I want for everyone who tried to hurt you to have changed their mind, but I would be surprised if every last participant in your would-be sacrifice has already made that change."

"Please," Ororon squeaks, his voice cracking badly. "I'm not in danger. A-and I can defend myself. If it came down to it, I could just escape again—"

Mavuika shakes her head. "In Natlan, that is not how we do things. We do not fend for ourselves. No-one fights alone..."

She clasps Ororon's hand in her own. Ororon stares up at her, slack-jawed. Her nails are long and sharp — but they do not dig into him. Her grasp is warm and unfailingly gentle.

"...if I know that you could be in danger, if there is anyone you suspect... then we can keep you out of cruelty. You shouldn't even have to escape, Ororon. Nobody should have to endure what you were put up to."

Ororon's mouth goes dry.

He feels suddenly compelled.

"There's a couple of people," he says. "People who... haven't been nice to me. They're not bad. I just... I just think they wish the sacrifice had worked."

Mavuika nods. "Good. I'll go talk to them."

Ororon goes tense in fear. "Wait!"

"...I have an agreement with Granny Itzli. She's the one who put me up to this. If anyone wants to know where I got my information... we've agreed that I'll say it was her. Citlali can take a fall... but I suspect that, given her reputation, nobody will be courageous enough to challenge her. You will remain untouched, Ororon. No consequences for telling me."

He...

Wait...

Granny planned this ahead of time?!

And, more importantly...

...they planned a way that he wouldn't have to take any abuse.

This is one of the best things anyone has ever done for him...

Ororon's ears tremble in place where they are pinned.

The Doctor is running some kind of spiked pinwheel over places in the delicate flesh.

"Do we need to start taking your body parts for real?" he murmurs. "Will that convince you?"

Ororon doesn't know why, but he thinks he still can't agree to it. Even if his abuser plans to make him a quadruple amputee. Even if this man intends on trimming off the most defining physical features that Ororon has.

(Oh, oh, no. He's going to take his wings away. Ororon feels clumsy and out of place with them, but... no! That's him! That's his body! He can't imagine being without it!)

The man holds up a sharpened scalpel, and Ororon lets out an involuntary whimper, doing a full-body tremble...

"It's just a scary story," Citlali says, crossing her arms at the terrified little Ororon.

"Yeah, but— our ancestors are real! And— and my ancestors, if I have them. They're— do you think they're really upset by stuff like that?"

"By people calling their names, bothering them with prayers, begging them restless until they have to come back and haunt them? Yes, well, it's true, but it's also just a story — and by that, I mean all stories have lessons. Some of our ancestors are nice. Others want to be left alone. This is why I tell you stories— so you can learn from them. Don't call on spirits carelessly. Some of them don't like it."

Ororon stares at the vandalized home.

Rocks through the window. Banners and tapestries charred from fire.

...But not a traceable sign of humans. The people who lived here said... said that all this was done by nobody. It looked like hollow shapes on the wind.

"Then I shouldn't ever call out to any," Ororon says tearfully. "If we can't ever be sure..."

"Oh, it's not that bad. We came here for a reason — to stop the bleeding here. If these spirits are appeased... they'll leave the fools living here alone. They'll have to pick some less violent forerunners for their next plea; hopefully they've learned their lesson."

Ororon stares out at the ruined home.

He hopes that's true... that nobody will get hurt by those spirits again.

"Cheer up," Citlali says. "Most spirits aren't this bad. We just... have some important work to do. You know how to set up my portable altar, don't you?"

Ororon suddenly nods eagerly. That, he can do!

"I've brought special incense just for this occasion. Memorise its scent well... I'll be teaching you how to make it. My hope is it will protect you from evil, whenever you need it..."

...The scalpel doesn't touch his wings. Nor his ears.

It instead goes into flesh on his arms.

Ororon's eyes are wide and twitchy. He's too full of pain already... from pins and bruises and aches and tension and restraints, but...

...oh. Now the tribal tattoos on his arms are getting traced... he's cutting into the designs? But... but why?

Ororon's gut turns. He lets out a squeal. This one sounds more animal than human.

"It would be a shame for those designs to go to waste, wouldn't they?" the Doctor asks. "We'd better accentuate them. So nothing happens to them. ...And I could always lift them off of you, in case we decide they're better off preserved away from your body."

Oh.

...Oh.

Oh, dear Archon and ancestors, no no FUCK no!

"You've got to take care of your ink, man," Ifa says, as Ororon squirms apologetically, letting Ifa massage lotion into the fresh tattoos. Ororon's just come of age, and his tribal marks, reminiscent of his Electro Vision, just look so right on him — but in his haste to get out of the tattooist's seat and get back to taking care of his animals, he's forgotten some things.

Ororon has some difficulties with touch. Not a ton. But being touched extensively doesn't come easily to him. The needle was alright — but Ifa's lotioned-up hands are proving an oddly worse concern. He's just rubbing it in so deep. And Ororon can't help having all the weak spots it does!

"Don't worry, my dude. I won't tell anybody that you're mad ticklish. You just have to promise to take better care of these tats. I think you should have them covered up for a little longer before you go showin' it off to the world."

Ororon nods hastily.

He's embarrassed over this entire situation... embarrassed that he's like this at all.

"Good." Ifa pulls one fabric sleeve over one tattooed arm, and then does the other. "You'll thank me later, bro. We don't want those getting infected, and on top of that, we gotta make sure that sick ink gets to take hold right. Capiche?"

Ororon nods. He's never heard anything described as "sick ink" before, but... well, Ifa is different.

"Alright. You're gonna be lookin' good in no time. Take care of yourself, man."

Ororon endures a hair-ruffling (with bonus ear-flipping); Ifa is just about the only person who gets away with it.

And Ifa thumps him on the back a few hearty times, as Ororon prepares himself to go...

Beads of blood roll down and across his arms.

It's hot. It's warm. It's going everywhere...

...Granny would have a fit. He's accidentally bled in her chamber before, when he was injured, and—

Wait, that's not how the story went.

She was angry... but not that Ororon was bleeding on her belongings. She seemed more like she didn't care.

She seemed angrier at Ororon being hurt to begin with.

...And angrier still, after his explanation, that Kinich let Ororon tag along with him on a dangerous bounty for a rabid Saurian.

And that Ororon got so hurt...

When Kinich finished off the mission, alone, he came back immediately to apologize and tend to Ororon's wounds — but Citlali had beaten Kinich to it.

...but now Ororon is bleeding far worse, and it's getting everywhere, but there is nobody willing to clean it, nobody willing to care...

"I want to be myself," Ororon says at last.

"...What?"

"I— I don't want to complete my soul! I don't need the rest of what is missing! I — if it's good enough for them, that's it! I choose to be myself! You will not alter the nature of my soul!"

All his life, he has felt the pain of something missing. The weight of knowing that there is something he is not. A bad, ominous, rancid feeling of not being what he would be if it was full...

...and yet, the way those others have all treated him...

...it makes him feel warm, in a way that, maybe, he could trick himself into thinking he is already full.

"I will not accept your coercion," Ororon says. "You will not complete my soul. Whatever it is you wish to do to me... I would rather suffer, and die, as myself."

"You are going to regret saying that."

Maybe he will.

Ororon's too tired to care at this point.

It's agony, of course, but... maybe it's also all the same to him. This ends the same way anyhow.

One last, warm memory fills his mind.

A late summer day with Kinich. A burning hot energy. A large kill, dead before the two of them, after a long struggle.

Ororon wonders if Kinich hates to have to kill a Saurian. Ororon's fed enough of the pseudo-dragons to have fond feelings of them. If Kinich feels the same, the only sign of it is the fact that he does not partake of Saurian meat. (But even then, it could be that there are enough people around that would find it taboo.)

"I give you my thanks for your help on this job," Kinich says. "I would not have sensed out the situation so well without you."

Ororon shakes his head. It's nothing to him.

"I'm going to compensate you accordingly," Kinich says.

"After you claim the bounty, you mean," Ororon says.

Kinich shakes his head. "You probably have other duties to attend to. And I have the means to compensate you now."

Ororon starts stammering. He doesn't know why, he just— he just feels weird about taking Kinich's money, every time! He wishes it was easier. He feels like helping somebody else out is simply something he ought to do because he's here, and he'd be in obligation if he wasn't doing it.

Kinich's dull eyes register Ororon's panic. "Buy yourself what you need," he says simply. "Think about what you have that needs repairing or replacing. Maybe you'll be more justified in taking my money."

"He did a fucking job for you, you know!" Ajaw says, popping out from behind Kinich. "You'd be a colossal douchebag for not paying him. He's almost as bad for being such a doormat, and— what are you doing?!"

Kinich silences Ajaw. Ororon knows that Kinich will have a headache to deal with later.

Ororon stares intensely at him, but also finally extends his palms to accept Kinich's money.

"Is it really true?" Ororon says. "That your father beat you?"

The question is horrifying. Worse than the question itself is the fact that it just slipped out of Ororon somehow — he doesn't know why he said that, and why so suddenly. It's a dirty question. A guilty one.

Kinich's gaze, rather than shocked, is patient. He studies Ororon simply.

"It is," Kinich says, like it doesn't pain him at all.

Ororon's face feels numb. What justification can he possibly add?

"You were found as an abandoned infant," Kinich says.

It's true. That's common knowledge.

Ororon nods. "This is strange to admit, but... I don't even know that my name is right. It was scribbled on my blankets — looking at it now, I don't even know that that's what it was supposed to be. Or if Granny read the spelling correctly."

"Is the meaning unknown, then?" Kinich asks.

"...Granny has tried to trace it. She's had nothing to tell me."

"You don't have your parents around to ask."

"I— I don't know if it's better to be an orphan, or— or to have been through—"

"I don't know either," Kinich says abruptly. "We did not start from the same position. I have not stood from your vantage point. ...I cannot judge whether it would have been better or worse to never meet my parents at all."

Ororon's body feels weak.

He's been drawn towards Kinich, as though hungry for his presence... longing for a human connection... but now, he's wondering if it was misplaced. If Kinich is the one person he can feel that for... or if he is truly all alone in the world.

"I was thinking maybe we were similar," Ororon says, "but... my judgement may have been off the mark. ...I know we are comrades. But I don't think I understand you."

"Maybe we are similar," Kinich says. "But I don't think we can know for sure. Not unless we were forced to switch places, bodies, lives. We could be the same and never know."

Kinich's logic is confusing. Kinich doesn't usually do word games.

But... Ororon thinks he gets it. Kinich is making no assumptions one way or another. That's the point.

"Then, you wouldn't... you wouldn't happen to see me as a 'kindred spirit.' ...Maybe that term is too metaphysical. I could be on about nothing."

"Those words don't mean anything to me. But you're reliable. I will readily consider you a comrade — you fight well, aren't selfish, and you let me into your home. That alone is worthy of trust."

"Do— do you ever feel like it's hard to belong anywhere, though? Hard to — hard to totally trust anyone? To see what they're hiding?"

Ororon knows not the point that he's making.

But whatever it is... Kinich misses it by a long shot.

"I've been in your home," he reiterates. "If you were hiding something, I would have found it by now. Too many people are hard to trust, but I don't consider you to be one of them."

Ororon, desperately, just wants to feel it again.

That sense of Kinich's eyes on him.

Of Kinich saying he does not know if he and Ororon are the same, and yet...

...that look of recognition, of seeing his own broken self some place outside of his own body, when he and Kinich lock eyes.

And Ororon thinks he finally understands.

If Kinich is not too broken to be a person, maybe he isn't either.

Maybe they aren't the same.

Or maybe...

...Maybe they're same enough.

"I don't care!" Ororon screams. "Do what you will! I'll die as myself!"

His eyesight feels broken. He does not know anymore — from the needles, the spiked pinwheel, the cutting, the fake-dissolved (or real-dissolved, but it's not like Ororon can tell at this point) limbs — what is going on or what will happen next. He has trouble believing his sight, ears, mind. He is bleeding insanely and yet it feels normal. The pain, as overwhelming as it is — that feels normal too.

"Kill me if you will!" Ororon roars. His voice sounds absolutely cracked and broken. "Just do it!"

If the Doctor won't do it, Ororon's body might finish the job by force of anxiety, exhaustion and tension. He does not know if anything is normal. If anything is functioning as it should. His heart could give in and decide to shut it all down at any second now.

The Doctor looks furious. His whole body is tense as he stands over and grabs on to Ororon.

He opens his mouth to speak...

...but then he whirls around, as though confused.

Are... are the other things (faint rumblings, dust from the ceiling, maybe even faint voices) Ororon thinks he might be sensing... are those hallucinations, or are they real?

But Ororon sees it.

Crumblings of rock, slipping down from the ceiling — as undeniable as the fresh cuts around Ororon's tattoos. Undeniable as the pins that need to be removed from his bleeding body.

And then, more than that...

The very tip, of a very familiar oversized drill head, poking down into the room — breaching this sealed, secure little chamber of torture.

And from beyond the metal door shut closed so hard, Ororon thinks he hears...

...the howling and screeching of motorcycle wheels.

Chapter Text

Ororon's eyelids flutter.

His disbelief. His confusion. His uncertainty that anything is real.

But then the drill pokes through the rest of the way, and the Doctor himself staggers back in time to avoid Turbo Twirly crashing to the ground.

No! She can't be here!

Ororon, immobilized, and his throat too dry for him to even speak — all he can feel is his dry eyes watering, as his heart believes, again and again: No, no, no, no...

"Who are you!" Kachina yells, so angry and righteous it doesn't even come out as a question. "And what do you know about Or... Or... Ororon?"

She cannot possibly know who the Doctor is — and yet she seems to know something instinctively, judging by the sudden trembling in her limbs, as though realizing she is in far, far over her head.

And it becomes worse when she turns around and looks at Ororon himself.

Her eyes comprehend nothing. She stares him up and down, exposed, nearly naked, fully immobilized — pinned like a butterfly but also spread like a frog about to be dissected.

Ororon's agony turns to shame. Kachina may be a war hero, but this is something sicker than war. Ororon is a sight not fit for the eyes of a child.

She reaches up one tiny mittened hand. Her eyes well up in tears. She keeps opening her mouth, as though trying to say something—

"WATCH OUT!" Ororon barks, his voice cracking and breaking with pain. "BEHIND YOU!"

Kachina doesn't react in time. She is lifted off the floor, effortlessly, by the Doctor. She lets out a tiny, trembling cry—

"Just what is going on here?" The Doctor says firmly. "Have I cause to execute an inconvenient child today? Or perhaps... perhaps I have gained another subject?"

The words are worse than anything Ororon has gone through thus far.

He doesn't know how long he's been gone. But he'll suffer an eternity longer of it if—

A new voice cuts through. "Hands off of her. And hands off of him."

The voice started out incensed — but the absolute firmness of the final word makes Ororon's body come alive with a cold chill.

The stillness breaks. A familiar grappling hook loops around Kachina and promptly tears her from the Doctor's arms. Kachina hits the floor with a cry — but she recovers quickly, and—

—and that's Kinich. Kinich standing between Ororon and his tormentor. Kinich standing in the way.

Kinich looks over his shoulder at Ororon for only a single dramatic instant. But it feels like everything slows down. Ororon's weakness. His shame. His inability to explain what is happening to his body right now — why he is mounted like this, why he looks like this, why... why anything.

But that look that Kinich returns to him...

...it's an expression only of total understanding, as though the mere sight of Ororon's suffering has explained everything.

Someone else has input to offer.

"Damn, bro! You look like SHIT! What the actual FUCK is this? Are you even alive, or are you fucking dead already?!"

...Ajaw does not mince words.

The Doctor does not show it to any great extent. But he is stepping back, as though assessing this situation — assessing the furious Kinich who is sizing him up — but so far, it's a little more like he's indecisive between Kinich and Kachina, and then suddenly glancing towards the heavy metal doors that are sealed so impossibly shut — Ororon has had an eyeful of them this entire time, but they have looked only like a taunt to him, a salvation too far-fetched to hope for—

But suddenly, even then, there is a fiery, flaming saw that suddenly appears and sharply cuts through — and with menace, is working its way downwards.

And the more of the door is sawed or melted open — the louder the screaming of the motorcycle wheels revving in place.

Then, it is like all heaven has broken loose.

The isolation. The stagnant air. The dull hum of pervasive dread.

All of it, swallowed, by noise and elements and Nightsoul energy.

Indistinguishable shouts, cries, roars of disbelief — a rush of familiar faces, matched only by Ororon's disbelief that they could even be here — and one person, especially, that Ororon never knew he would be so relieved to lock eyes with ever again.

"What manner of foul ritual is this?" Granny Itzli asks. Somehow, her voice cuts through the chaos.

What Ororon can see in the rush of claustrophobic battle in the background — the Doctor warps with snaps of his fingers — he moves with a superhuman strength, and it looks like he has Mualani by the throat, only for Mavuika to steal his attention in the next second — it feels a thousand miles away. Ororon cannot tear his gaze off of Citlali's sorrow.

Her hand cups his face. But then it travels down to his body, his chest — and his skin — it should feel like a terror on his skin, and it partially does, but the touch also brings with it a soothing, cold stillness. Something that hushes the bleeding where it travels.

But as Ororon feels his own calm at last... the expression in Citlali's face becomes worse, mutated, disbelieving, enraged.

"I'm sorry!" Ororon sobs suddenly. "I didn't do it; I didn't give in; I didn't— I promise I didn't let him— let him take me—"

The words seem not to reach her. She withdraws her touch completely.

Ororon is expecting a slap. He has feared Citlali's open rage before. But this— what this is is scarier. An absolute stillness but with that bloody, murdering, dead look inside of her pupils. Ororon should expect the telling-off of a lifetime.

So he does not understand it when Citlali turns completely away and instead bellows for Xilonen to get over.

Citlali bolts, her whole body consumed by the blue-white blaze of her Nightsoul transmission, and goes to join the hopeless fight against the Doctor— a fight on Ororon's behalf.

And that's what's most confusing of all.

Ororon can't help but cry and wince from the closeness of Xilonen's metal-cutting torch.

"I'm sorry," Xilonen says.

Ororon has never heard her voice sound like that. Resigned, but determined at the same time. Absolute sorrow that she has to do this.

"I wish I could go faster. But I don't want you losing fingers. There'll still be scarring. I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't have come," Ororon sobs. "None of you. Don't— don't let anyone get killed."

"We're not going to," Xilonen says, fiercely. "We have Ifa here. And Iansan. The three of us — all of us — will keep you alive."

She's still working — methodically cutting through each restraint, one by one by one. She has removed the pins driven through Ororon's ears. His wings.

But the ones left sunken into his skin — she's hesitated.

Ororon has an entire arm free now. And all of its fingers. But it hangs uselessly at his side. His muscles— his muscles feel limp and incapable.

"It's not what I meant!" Ororon cries. "You'll be hurt— saving me—"

Xilonen's feline eyes are narrowed.

With a steady glare, she places her hands over Ororon's free one.

"No one fights alone," she snarls.

And then all else is drowned out.

The yowling of the tired of Mavuika's bike. Her light, like the sun itself obliterating every last shadow that hides here. The noise, the blinding whiteness — Ororon cannot even make out the wrath of Ajaw looming over Kinich.

"I'm going after him," Mavuika says, in the first moment of any of it starting to dim. "The rest of you... help Ororon."

Ororon's mind races, because he must have blanked out for several moments.

When... did...

...when did Xilonen get everything off of him?

He collapses out of the frame where he'd been spread out.

"Please," he whimpers, selfish again for the first time. "Please... healers... the pins..."

Among everyone else gathered around him, staring... he sees Kachina, front and center and baffled and... and not even horrified. She can't figure it out. Ororon doesn't want her to.

"Pins?" Iansan asks.

Ororon can't get words out.

But he lifts a wobbly hand to his arm, where several have been driven in.

"Please," he says.

Iansan's eyes, close and cunning, suddenly change shape to one of absolute recognition. Her fingernails close around the head of a pin driven into his muscle.

Ororon flinches, his heart tensing up in sudden terror. Everyone— everyone is staring at the sight of him in horror. Kachina, the last to piece any of it together, lets out a gasp.

"Hey," Kinich says. "I think that should wait. Let's get him some fresh air."

"I— I can't— Don't touch me— I— I can't walk, but—"

"Everyone clear out a little," Citlali says suddenly. "I think I might be able to help my grandson."

A swoosh of her hand, and Citlali summons Citlalin — floating in place and looking, for all the world, like a big, benign, hovering pillow. There's still a subdued rage under Granny's skin, but Ororon gets the odd impression she's keeping it in for now. Ororon's punishment will have to come later, he supposes. Even Granny realizes that, in a state like this, Ororon would rather die than take anything.

"Hey, man," Kinich says. "You need to get on your feet for just a couple of seconds. I'll help you. Only a little bit, and then you can get out. Okay?"

"Okay," Ororon manages to croak.

It's not okay. None of this is okay. He— he thinks he can barely stand being alive right now.

But, he thinks, as he flops down onto Citlalin:

It's over.

He's still himself.

He's won.

Ororon blacks out — but only for a minute. He's jumpy. He comes to when he feels fingers on his skin.

"Hey, Kachina," Ifa says suddenly. "I have some herbs and medicines on me. But what Ororon really needs is fresh, wild mint. And aloe. Do you think you can come with me to find some? Ororon's in safe hands here. He'll be waiting for us when we get back."

"But— but what happened to him?" Kachina whimpers. "He's... he's hurt. Or... worse than hurt. I... I don't know what the word is!"

"Kachina." Mualani sounds firm and determined. "Ororon's gonna be better. He isn't dying. He's just... he just needs a lot of help. That's why we're gonna help Ifa get those herbs he needs, okay?"

"Okay..."

Ororon doesn't hear it, but he thinks Citlali mouths a "thank you" to the ones who are clearing out.

And there, aboveground, in morning light, held upright by Citlali and Kinich...

...Ororon steadily begins to sob.

Cool water down his throat.

Hesitant fingers, as the healers work to safely remove the last of the Doctor's implements from Ororon's body.

Twitches and jolts that he can't help — but that he's suddenly soothed out of, by the way Citlali strokes his ears.

A silence from Ajaw — who is present, but staring like not even he knows what to make of this.

Xilonen's strong hand moving so slowly and carefully — wiping caked blood from off of the cuts around his tribal tattoos.

Kinich bearing something precious that had been taken from Ororon at some point — Ororon's Vision.

It's still on nothing but a chain (not Ororon's usual way of wearing it). But feeling its closeness, just tied badly onto Ororon's belt (he'll figure something else out later) — it helps him. It makes him feel a tiny bit of strength back in his veins.

Ow. He still feels really twitchy. But he thinks that's just because of the lingering pains. Not his friends' touch.

"What exactly did that man do to you?" Kinich asks. It sounds venomous.

"I made it back to you," Ororon croaks. "I made it back... and I'm myself."

It must sound like nonsense to them. Words without meaning.

But truthfully, Ororon has never felt this relieved to have suffered so much. His plan had been to die as himself... but it turns out he'll get to live as himself instead.

And there, sandwiched between Kinich and Citlali, both of whom are keeping him upright... he passes out again.

When Ororon wakes up...

...Oh. Some of the others are back.

(He can faintly hear Kachina's voice. But it sounds like someone is serious-talking with her and trying to keep her away from the sight of Ororon.)

"We didn't manage to hurt him," Mavuika says gravely to Citlali. "But it seems we have forced him to leave Natlan. That on its own I will consider a victory."

"You know who that man was?" Citlali asks.

She had been stooping over Ororon's body to soothe his cuts with her Vision. Now, she looks up. Ororon immediately misses the kind coldness.

"The Doctor. Second of the Fatui Harbingers. ...A man far more difficult to reason with than the Captain. He's not a man we can ever have on our side."

Nobody voices objection to that.

"Still," Mavuika says. "He is... not an easy man to trifle with. But that's something to worry about later. Is his condition stable?"

Ororon seizes with terror as Kinich touches him suddenly.

A hand over Ororon's heart. Piercing, dull eyes staring directly into his own. Kinich is only checking Ororon's pulse... but it feels astonishingly intimate. It doesn't feel scientific. It feels more like... more like a connection, an understanding suddenly realized, a difficult truth suddenly accepted.

Kinich stares hard at Ororon's expression, and then just tilts his head downwards.

"It's okay," Kinich says, incredibly under his breath. Without a doubt, Ororon is the only one who can hear. "You're strong. And you're going to be alright."

Kinich seems to be the only person here who isn't baffled, confused, begging to know the truth.

Because Kinich...

...Kinich stares at him with the sincerity of a man who, against all impossibility, understands it already.

Nobody would believe Ororon if he said Kinich sounded so soft, just a second ago. He doesn't think it would make sense if he said, suddenly, that he was dying for a moment alone with Kinich, just so he could ask him— ask him if, if he really does understand what it's like — if Kinich can give Ororon any idea of where to go from here.

"His pulse is stable," Kinich says. "And Ororon says he feels like himself. That's a sign that he'll recover from this."

Kinich doesn't know what Ororon has been through. How can Kinich say it so confidently, when he doesn't know?

...But Kinich heard the right words.

He heard what Ororon said — and somehow knew, without explanation, exactly what it meant.